


The Bogeyman's Child

by Draikinator



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, Night Terrors, Post-Pacifist, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Second Person, You're frisk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5198798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draikinator/pseuds/Draikinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've learned the hard way that monsters aren't monsters. You're probably the only real monster out there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bogeyman's Child

“Aren’t you a bit young to stay alone, sweetie? Where’s your mommy and daddy?”

The old man’s words are gentle, concerned, but you nudge the coin purse of gold toward him insistently, “…M not young,” you say, “From Mount Ebott. Monster. Only look young.”

“Oh!” He says, surprised, then takes the coin purse and looks inside. He takes a few, counting the exchange rate in his head- it must come of fairly often, this close to the mountain, “You really do look like a little human kid. Is that, um, a shapeshifty thing, or…?” His words are laced with a concern he clearly wants to hide, but genuinely inquisitive.

“Think it’s just a coincidence,” you say softly, and pull back the coin purse, putting it into your backpack where it came from. He scans the room key and hands it to you.

“That sure is real neat,” he says, smiling, and pointing toward the elevator, “It’s room 303, should be right on your left when you step out.”

You nod at him in thanks and take the key, stepping over and into the elevator. You close your eyes in it and imagine being back in the Core for a moment, because you try not to let yourself forget things like that, and sometimes your memories get all muddled up, but you remember what the core felt like. Warm, with a smell of electricity and sometimes rust, and cleaning products. You open your eyes at the ding and step out. The door is on your left, and the key opens it.

You shut the blinds and climb under the duvet, burying yourself in covers and blankets. The hum of the neon sign outside the motel and the chirping insects is reassuring and lulls your softly into a sleep that had been evading you for what felt like years, but was really just a few days.

You don’t dream.

* * *

 

You’ve got a meeting with Mr. Carter in an hour and a half at a cafe nearby; he’s writing a paper on monsters and the integration into human society for school and you offered to give a few quotes and add some context from a human perspective; he’d already interviewed your mother and Papyrus. You brush your teeth with the motel toothbrush and water, and leave the room largely untouched, the bed remade behind you, even though you know the sheets need to be cleaned. It feels polite.

You take the bus three stops and step onto the sidewalk, and you can smell the river air and car gasoline from the heavy downtown traffic. It’s two blocks to The Sandbox where you’ve agreed to meet, and you frown when you push the glass door open, because you’re pretty sure this is a bar and not a cafe, but the bartender makes you a grilled cheese with ketchup anyway and you sit down at a table and wait. He’s a few minutes late and looks harried, and stands in the doorway looking confused until you wave at him.

He slides into his seat, steepling his fingers anxiously, “So… Um… Are you… Frisk?”

You nod. He looks a little surprised. You take another bite of your grilled cheese.

“Wow, uh… You’re just… Younger, than I expected. Is your mom here?” He asks, looking around. You shake your head and point at his notebook, which he’s placed on the table in front of him.

“You already talked to my Momma,” you say, and he makes a little face, but nods.

“Miss Toriel?” He asks. You nod. He looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.

“Well… Okay, um, anyway,” he says, and pulls a recorder and a pen from his pocket, opening his notebook, “Let’s just get started then.”

* * *

 

Mr. Carter seems genuinely pleased with what you’ve given him, though he does occasionally question your story. He underestimates you, clearly, but most people do, and it doesn’t really bother you. He loiters near the door when you’re finished, like he’s waiting to see if you leave or if someone is picking you up, but there’s not many people here, so you buy a coffee and watch a movie on your cell phone. You don’t see him leave, but he’s gone by the time you sit back down.

You look away from the cartoon action on screen when a text from Sans covers the upper portion.

 _yo_ it says, succinctly. You consider ignoring it, but when it minimizes itself you pause the movie and open your texts.

 _Hello_. You send back. You probably already know what he’s going to say.

_where you at kiddo_

You open your notepad and copy the address from where you’d saved it, and text it to him.

_k._

You finish your movie waiting and when he pushes the door open the bartender does a double take your friend ignores. You stand up and shoulder your backpack.

“i owe ya anything?” He asks the bartender. She shakes her head; you already paid. “alrighty.”

His motorcycle is idling outside. He gives you the helmet from the back, an outrageous thing painted like a skull. He never wears it. You think it’s mostly yours. You drive in a comfortable silence until he stops behind a sedan and you peek around it to see the train crossing lazily a few cars down. He drops the kickstand and you bury your face in his jacket, kneading your fingers into the fabric in little fists.

“tori’s worried,” he says casually. You press your forehead against his spine and rememorize the grooves along its surface. “chara?” You shake your head gently into his back. “mm. nightmares?” You nod. He sighs, but that’s the end of it. The train passes. The line moves.

Momma hugs you all teary eyed when you get home and you wish she would just stop, she has to know you’re fine by now. You survived the underground but somehow staying the night in a motel is going to kill you. You think about telling her that a motel has never killed you, but she certainly has, so you don’t understand her concern, but that sounds mean in your head, so you pretend you didn’t think it.

“Oh, Frisk, my child…” She says, running her paws over your cheeks and through your hair. Her eyes are puffy. You wish she’d stop crying when you leave. You can take care of yourself. You think that should be obvious by now. Sans loiters by the door, like he wants to go, or feels like he’s not allowed to stay, but Momma beckons him back in and wipers her nose on a handkerchief. They share a few words you don’t listen to and you wander into the living room to dig the xbox out from under the tv so you can play Tomb Raider. Momma thinks it’s too bloody and doesn’t like you playing it, but Sans bought it for you and you think chara likes it as much as you do, and bothers you less on days you let yourself slip a little on gorey video games. Momma doesn’t really know why you like it, and you don’t wanna tell her.

Sans and Momma make pork chops for dinner and speak in hushed voices you continue not listening to and you reach a checkpoint under an overpass. You’re upgrading your shotgun when Momma calls you to the table and she seems happier when you sit down and put some real food in your body, and Sans keeps her laughing with puns that make you snicker until milk comes out of your nose. Momma takes a picture for facebook and you smile for it with milk all over your chin.

The night settles in like a blanket and Sans still seems uncomfortable leaving and Momma says he can sleep on the couch, which seems to console him. You crawl into bed while they’re still up watching television and you sleep okay at first, wrapped up in sheets and quilts and soft, downy pillows, but then the nightmares come.

At first you’re standing in snow, and it’s okay, the crisp noises it makes under your boots as you stomp through it, the bitter cold that makes your skin turn red but makes you glad for your sweater. You’ve always liked snow, and you roll into it to make a snow angel, but suddenly, it’s not cold anymore. It’s not wet, or crunchy. It’s soft, and dry, and it’s dust, and you’re covered in it and you can’t wipe it off, and when you stumble to your feet and run away, Momma blocks your path. She won’t let you by even though you’re waist deep in dust and it’s sticking to your face and filling up your lungs the bitch won’t fucking move and you reach into the kitchen drawer for the meat knife because you know where she’s sleeping and you can leave and breathe again if you just-

The drawer slams shut with a flash of blue and Sans is standing across from you in the room, one hand raised and eye glowing, and he’s judging you judging you _judging you_ but you know you can kill him if you cheat because he’s a cheater cheater _cheater_ too and you know how he works and you hiss and snarl and he slams you to the ground without even moving and you claw at the tile floor and sob-

And eventually, you run out of steam and Chara lets go and you go slack on the floor. The magic weight that had been pinning you down vanishes and you curl in on yourself in a ball on the floor, threading your fingers into your hair and shoving your face into your trembling knees. Bony hands pick you up as gently as they can and carry you back to your room. You think you pass Momma and she looks sad, but she doesn’t follow you.

You curl up in his lap wrapped in blankets and you sob until you pass out again, and you think at one point you wake up again, but that same magical weight keeps you from crawling away and you fall back asleep, and the next time you wake up it’s morning, and you can smell cinnamon pancakes from the other room. Sans is asleep, and you try not to wake him when you crawl away but he jerks into consciousness and slams you into the mattress. You let him and wait a few seconds until his eyes have cleared and he’s looking at you expectantly.

“I’m okay,” you say, and that seems good enough, because he grunts an apology and leans back, rubbing at his face sleepily. You put on the slippers he gave you for christmas and go into the kitchen.

Momma gives you a look of concern when she sees you, but you smile reassuringly, or what you hope is reassuringly, because you literally can’t admit you were going to kill her last night and you can sense she doesn’t want to talk about it either, and she smiles back. You step over next to her in front of the oven where she’s making pancakes with fire magic.

“Do you want to squirt the batter in?” She asks you, holding a bottle of batter with a squirt top. You nod and take it in both hands, frowning with concentration as you draw a pancake roughly shaped like her face. It bloats as it bakes into a blob that makes her laugh in a very genuine way. Sans wanders out and sits at the table, leaning his chin on his forearms. You bring him a pancake that you’ve baked in the shape of a frying pan. He smiles at it and ruffles your hair.

Momma doesn’t have work today, because it’s sunday, but she does have some errands to run, and even though she seems like she’d rather blow them off and stay with you, you don’t want her to do that. You don’t want her to feel bad. You tell her you have plans with Papyrus and she seems almost relieved, so you let Sans drive and he takes you to McDonalds for lunch. You buy your own Happy Meal because you want the Hot Wheels car that comes with it. Sans buys a soda and lets you get through three chicken nuggets before he asks if you’re okay.

“Nightmares,” you say between bites, “Forget.”

“chara?” He asks. You nod. He takes a sip between his teeth. Children are staring.

“did you reset?”

You shake your head and dump ketchup on your fries, “Nobody got hurt.”

He nods this time, “good.”

You cross your legs in your seat, “Thank you,” you say, “for stopping me.”

“don’t worry about it,” he says, “i’m glad it, uh, worked out.”

“Mm,” you take a sip of your non-caffeinated soda thoughtfully, “Were you gonna kill me?”

He sputters and coughs, wiping his face, “what? no.”

“What if I’d killed Momma?” You say. He takes a moment to think about it, and his expression becomes serious.

“fair enough. what do you think?”

You think about it. All the timelines are muddled in your head to the point you aren’t sure how old you are anymore, but if there’s anything you know about Sans, it’s how far you need to push him before he’ll kill you. “No,” you say, finally. He nods.

“you gotta stop runnin’ off, kid,” he says, setting down his cup. You rearrange your fries without looking up, “seriously, okay, uh, you’re worrying your mom sick. i know you can take care of yourself, you’ve proven that times a trillion, kid, but, uh, she worries. i worry. we all worry. you gotta do what you gotta do but, y'know, can’t we help?”

You fidget in your seat, “Don’t know.”

“if you’re worried about chara, you don’t gotta. you got buddies willing to take turns keepin’ an eye on you, alright? whatever it takes to make you feel safe. we owe you, after all.”

You sniffle and wipe your eyes with your sleeve, because they don’t owe you anything. Nobody owes you anything. Not after everything you’ve done, after everything your hands have done.

“hey,” he says, vaguely concerned, and you burst into shuddering tears, burying your face in your hands, “whoa, kid, what-”

“I have to go-” you say, stumbling back and out of your seat, knocking over the chair. He looks entirely surprised, and it takes him a fumbling moment to follow you when you shove the door open and run outside. You both have stubby little legs though and you don’t make it far before he grabs you by the back of your shirt with magic. You hang there limply, defeated, heart pounding in your chest.

“hey, whoa, kid- what the hell?” He puts you down and you ball your tiny hands in fists at your sides.

“How can you say that?” You hiss through your tears, standing in the parking lot of a McDonalds, “How can you possibly think that after- after everything I’ve done, and Sans, you, you, know what I’ve done-”

He gives you a very serious, grown up look, “you haven’t done anything.”

“Yes, yes I have-” you choke, hands shaking, “I killed you- you, and Momma, and Undyne, and Papyru-”

“shut up,” he says, and picks you up like the child you probably have to admit you are one day and you sob broken apologies into his shoulder while he rubs your back, “different lifetime. different pap. different sans. different frisk, different chara. you ain’t hurt nobody, kiddo.” You blink up and you’re back home. He must have taken a shortcut. You wonder if he’ll go back for his bike.

At some point you tire yourself out and sleep dreamlessly and wake up still curled into his shoulder. He’s got a movie on but it doesn’t look like he’s watching it. He’s looking at his phone, texting Momma about you. She seems worried.

“Sans?” You ask. He clicks his phone off and sets it down, “Am I a bad person?”

He considers it for a moment, “no worse than me.”

For some reason you accept this answer and nod, “Do you think I’m ever gonna be okay?”

“i don’t think anybody’s ‘okay,’” he pauses, and then rubs circles into your back. You hiccup, a realize he’s watching “The Nightmare Before Christmas,” which strikes you as funny for some reason, “but, yeah. i think you will be. not now, but someday.”

“…Would you…” You start, quietly, “stay up with me tonight? And make sure I don’t do anything bad?”

“sure, kid,” he smiles at you, even though he’s always smiling, “undyne said she’d take watch tomorrow night. that okay?”

You think you’re going to cry again, but it’s a good cry, and you nod.

Momma comes home and you help her make spaghetti for dinner, and even cut the tomatoes yourself.


End file.
